


Elementals, my dear Holmes

by iamhopeless_com



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Elemental Magic, Everyone is angry about something, John is just too BAMF, Protective Mycroft, Superpowers AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamhopeless_com/pseuds/iamhopeless_com
Summary: One-shot. AU with super-powers. There is more to John Watson that meets the eye, and Mycroft knows it. If he can't keep the man away from Sherlock, he'll sure as hell use the man to protect his brother.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 147





	Elementals, my dear Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> So... I'm not quite sure where this came from. Get ready for some dodgy fantasy. And yeah, the title was intentional. Read to find out why ;)  
> The story is cross-posted on ff. net

Mycroft Holmes was a patient man. He had to be, in his line of work and with his superior capacities. The goldfishes that pretended to know better than him always lost in the long run. They all gave up their fight after a while, and he always had a plan in case a rare specimen decided to be persistent. That is why Mycroft was seldom surprised. Even less frequent was the event of him being unpleasantly stunned.

Having Sherlock go through another rebellious streak was one thing, since the younger Holmes managed to stay sober for the time being. Having him move into a flat far above his finances, and look for a flatmate was hardly ideal, but could be tolerated. Another headache for his surveillance team, but still easy to deal with. But having Sherlock invite to move in the flat, take interest in and actively socialize with the person whose photo Mycroft was currently holding… that was an unmitigated disaster.

He pressed the intercom. His PA immediately showed up at the door, for once looking up from her phone. "Proceed with the plan B1, but reinforce the perimeter" Mycroft ordered off-handedly, not letting his unease transpire in his voice or posture. "Include elemental contingency measures."

Anthea appeared surprised for a second, before nodding. "Yes, sir." Being surprised wasn't part of her job description.

Once she disappeared, the 'minor' governmental official returned to his perusal of the file of one John H. Watson, former RAMC Captain, MD. He looked oblivious and naïve on the photo. However, he knew that the detailed report about the fatal mission in Kandahar that ended with the brave doctor being incapacitated was a cover-up. He had been in the chain of approval for this story, after all.

He also knew exactly what John Watson was capable of.

# #

To his immense relief, the soldier did not resist the invitation. The short man limped out of the car towards the spot in the middle of the warehouse, utterly unimpressed, and stood to attention, cane forgotten in his right hand. After all, they both knew that it was not needed – the doctor was the one to strongly suggest (read - insist on) it as part of the cover story. "What is it about?" Watson asked with barely a hint of frustration before Mycroft could start the prepared monologue. "Need I remind you that I am retired?"

There was tension in the air, the inherent fear of the anomaly in their midst. Mycroft blinked, and changed strategies. "My apologies, Dr Watson. It is only an information meeting that could not be postponed."

Watson cocked his head to the side. "What information do you require?"

Feeling that any sort of power-play would not go well with the man at the moment, Mycroft took one step forward without breaking eye contact. "In your last report, you insisted to go into full retirement. For us to keep to the agreement, I must ask you a… let's say, a personal favor."

"I don't do favors to strangers" came the cold retort. "Who are you?"

He cringed inside before revealing the crucial information. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

That seemed to genuinely surprise John Watson, who blinked a couple of times, processing this tidbit of knowledge. "I respect your work," he finally stated, looking amenable to a discussion now. "I can at least hear you out."

Shrugging away the strong impulse to try some intimidation tactics (he remembered full well how badly it went for Hastings six years ago), Mycroft spoke calmly: "I ask you to not continue your association with Sherlock Holmes." Watson's face hardened at that. He must have understood the family connection already, and the demand could not be a complete shocker, but it was still better to drive the point home. "The potential for disaster in your association is too important to be disregarded."

A chilled breeze swirled around their legs, and Mycroft stepped back in alarm, hearing his men shift in the shadows, ready to defend. John Watson glared somberly at him. It was simply a play of lights, but his eyes seemed to glow with an eerie intensity. "Who do you think I am, Mister Holmes?" the man growled, threat laced in every syllable.

 _Damn. This is bad_ , the older Holmes thought, identifying his current dominant emotion as mild panic. That's why he avoided dealing with these people. Elementals had atrocious mood swings, even with ongoing psychological support. They had an extremely rare and valuable talent, that allowed them to use in various ways one (or several) of four primary elements – water, earth, air and fire. It was a genetic anomaly. The gift manifested very early on in life, allowing governments around the globe to identify, collect and properly train the Elementals since their young age. Their existence was classified (a rare consensus for the United Nations), and their use restricted to undercover operations.

But John Watson was a very special case. He was detected in his early twenties, when he blatantly used his powers during the Sandhurst training camp. The man remained fully in control since then, pursuing a career he chose as a normal person, but occasionally accepting contractual jobs that required special abilities. His double affinity and outstanding intelligence made him one of the strongest agents, and the only Elemental no government tried to control (after several failed attempts).

Someone of that magnitude could not be allowed to stay with Sherlock, if only because the detective was blissfully unaware of any mystic powers at play in the big wide world, and Mycroft swore it would remain that way forever. His little brother got into enough trouble as it was. An unpredictable human weapon would certainly not help this tendency.

Meanwhile, the weapon in question took a deep breath, and… relaxed. Offering a genuine smile at large ( _of course, he knows where the security detail is_ ), Watson elaborated on his early inquiry: "I am just an ex-army doctor. I do not intend to be anything more." Nodding to himself, he turned away, throwing a nonchalant "Evening" over his shoulder and limped back to the car.

Apparently, the discussion was closed. Mycroft scowled in discontent. His main objective, getting the powerful Elemental away from Sherlock, failed. There was a vague reassurance from Watson that he wanted to live quietly from now on, but knowing the detective's lifestyle, it was a lost cause.

"What are your instructions, sir?" A plain agent emerged from the shadows.

Holmes gave him a disapproving look before drawling: "Upgrade the surveillance status to five. When he slips up, we strike."

# #

That same night, he had to abandon a very important conference call with MI5 to rush to a crime scene of all things, just to catch the surreal spectacle of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson giggling like school girls. They noticed him, of course. While Watson hang back with a wary expression, Sherlock strode forward with a mix of anger and frustration.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"I was worried" the older man replied sincerely, though it was never perceived as such.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern!" Mycroft threw a sharp glare in Watson's general direction. The man plastered an unassuming expression on his face and shrugged. It appeared that the doctor did not reveal anything… unnecessary.

Still not reassured ( _this man can obliterate a small country with minimal effort_ , his brain reminded him constantly), the older brother fell into the soothing bickering pattern with Sherlock. It was routine. Predictable.

When the detective finally swept away with a huff and a swirl of the expensive coat, John Watson took several moments to smile sympathetically at him. "Don't worry, Mister Holmes. I really don't want him to know either."

With that last sentence, the man almost ran to catch up with Sherlock. They walked away, smiles on their faces, and light conversation flowing effortlessly.

"Oh Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed, feeling the weight of the whole world set on his shoulders. _The first friend he makes in years is a ticking bomb. What else did I expect from this child?_

# #

John had never considered himself a genius, or overly smart. He did what it took to survive, nothing more, nothing less. But people got easily scared of over-powered geniuses, so he played this card to the fullest.

His most vivid childhood memory was his fourth Christmas. Their Christmas lights had a faulty wiring, and the wall caught fire in the middle of the night. Their parents woke them up, Harry and him, grabbed them from their beds and rushed down the smoked stairs, but it had been too late, they had all inhaled too much smoke, and it was hot, so unbearably hot. They had collapsed in the living room, where it burned the most. Somehow the four-year-old John was the last one standing. He tried to pull Harriet with him towards the exit, but she was too heavy for his small frame. In fear and despair, he screamed, wanting nothing more than the flames to disappear.

There was a powerful gush of wind, inside a closed house, mind you, and the closest fire was snuffed out. John, in all his childish ignorance, understood that it was not normal. But it was helpful. He tried to wake his parents and sister up before the flames returned, but they just wouldn't open their eyes. The phantom of loneliness was even scarier than the blaze. So, little John, crying rivers, prayed very hard for them to heal and to be saved.

All four of them had made it out of the house, with only minor burns and smoke inhalation. None, aside from John, remembered exactly what had happened inside.

It wasn't very clear in his mind why he had initially shut up about the wind and the healing. But he continued to hide it, exploring his powers at night, always careful to avoid detection. There were some awesome perks in his gifts – he could summon a wind strong enough to make him run faster, heal small injuries on himself and animals (didn't try on humans until much, much later), will rocks to move. _Air and earth,_ John concluded in the first year of primary school, having read almost all fantasy books in the local library. His parents thought his obsession with fantasy was cute. Harry was condescending when she wasn't stealing his novels. John didn't quite care, satisfied that they were still alive.

The question about _others_ had been hanging on the back of his mind for a long time. Should he seek them out? Reveal himself? Something always stopped him from talking about these… powers.

When John was about eleven years-old, the Watson family went on a trip to Spain. The change in scenery, the sun and the beach were a welcome respite from their usual surroundings. There, on the Mediterranean coast, was the first time John met someone like him. They were in the middle of building a sand castle with Harry, when he felt a strong jolt, something tugging at his senses. Disregarding his part of the castle, John frantically looked around, excited and uneasy at the same time. "What are you doing?" his sister huffed.

"Just want to check something" the boy answered before running off towards the water.

 _Something_ was there. He stepped closer to the waves, and suddenly a kid, no older than three, jumped at him from the sea. They fell back in a tangle of limbs, wet sand flying in droplets around them. "Wha?!" There had been absolutely no way the kid could stay undetected under water for this long, and be perfectly fine. John stared at the grinning boy while the strong sense of _kinship_ grew in his chest.

Then a beautiful Spanish woman came running, scolding the boy in their language, and stumbling an apology in broken English to him. John nodded dumbly, and shuffled back to his own family, still shocked about his discovery. The next day, he tried to find them again, but got spooked by serious looking men in suits that circled the beach.

Slowly, very slowly years went by, and John got stronger. In med school, he gained access to the Royal Library. Along with medical texts he crammed with other students, he managed to dig up old reference books and newspapers regarding _unusual people_. Any mention of them stopped after the WWI, but the 19th century had a surprisingly extensive documentation on the phenomenon. The most instructive read was the private journal of Alistair Jones, a traveler born in Essex that circled the globe in search for rare talents. That is how John learned about Elementals and the measures governments put into place to exploit their powers.

 _Lucky_. He had been extremely lucky to recognize and hide his powers. If it was bad in late 1870's, it certainly did not get better in 1980's. The memory of suited men roaming around the Spanish seaside town confirmed his concerns.

John wasn't a genius. But he planned for years, prepared contingency plans upon contingency plans, all in order to stay out of the system. To remain free to choose his own path. It was lonely as hell, but necessary. _Survive. Get stronger. Do not get caged._

When reality caught up to him (a bullet ripping through his flesh and bone), John suddenly realized that he got carried away. The thrill of using his power made him reckless, even dangerous for his environment. So he resolutely fell back into _normalcy_ , disregarding raised eyebrows and fearful mutterings from the higher-ups.

In that forced retirement, he didn't expect to meet someone who made him feel at home.

# #

Life with Sherlock was… different. Better. It was a novel feeling, to be needed and respected for his own skills, not the mystic powers. Granted, this was not easy to spot, but the detective's callousness and disregard for social niceties never fooled him. He wouldn't be allowed to stay if he wasn't welcome, after all. And if he sometimes laced a bit of healing in a passing touch, or sent a bit of wind to push them forward while chasing some criminal, it remained completely undetected.

Then came the Great Game. Throughout the case, he felt steadily worse, unease growing in his guts as the hours ticked by. He even agreed to help with Mycroft's case, just to get away from the nagging discomfort the sight of the pink phone induced in him.

"What brings you here, Dr Watson?" The voice sounded bored, but he could detect the wariness in it.

John smiled. "I'm helping with the missile plans. What can you tell me about them?"

After a short but informative conversation, the blogger got up to leave. Mycroft cringed a semblance of a polite smile at him ( _oh yes, his dental appointment_ ). "Do you want me to take a look at it?" he heard himself ask.

"Pardon?" The older Holmes looked briefly stunned before regaining his composure.

 _Well, no going back now,_ John shrugged. "I can heal the pain, if you want me to."

"Heal?" The single word dripped with disbelief.

"Yeah" he raised an eyebrow. _Wait, don't tell me…_ "You didn't know."

"Know what, Dr Watson?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a nervous staccato on the armrests.

"That earth users are healers." It was rather amazing that this knowledge didn't pass down through centuries. The facts had been recorded in several documents, that John had been able to access. But after all, the world heavily focused on the military use of elements since early 20th century. Judging by Mycroft's reaction, the possibility had been disregarded entirely. "Never mind, I'll be going then" he quipped and made a hasty exit.

# #

Pretending to be normal had its price. A lot of people underestimated him.

At least, that's what John blamed for getting him into his current position – tied up in a changing room of a pool with explosives draped over his chest like wreaths, and a madman grinning down at him.

"You will be a good pet, won't you, Johhny?" Moriarty purred, yanking John's head back by the hair.

The touch sent his senses into overload. An image of water and fire circling each other, tugging back and forth, popped into his mind, and a feeling of _kinship_ , but twisted, oh so warped, and broken, and **wrong**. Cold black eyes observed him, but Jim didn't seem to notice anything amiss. For the first time, John realized that other Elementals couldn't feel each other's presence.

Then everything went pear-shaped. Explosive vest, snipers, Sherlock showing up in the middle of it. "I will burn you" Jim promised. "I will burn the heart out of you." And John knew it was meant to be literal. He couldn't allow that, not on his life.

# #

The pool had been a trying experience to say the least. Sherlock spent hours to process and file everything in his head, battling with the waves of panic and guilt that shook him. _John could have died._ Seeing his friend silent and withdrawn, slumped on their couch, staring into distance, sent him into a mental argument. _The Work is dangerous. I can't ask him to stay. But John never took exception to the danger. But not like this!_

John's phone chimed with an incoming message. Sherlock chanced a glance at the doctor and frowned, unsure of what he saw. There was an absent look on the man's face when he opened the text, but for a spit second, a cold half-smile played on his lips. Then John tossed the phone back on the couch with a heavy sigh, leaving Sherlock wondering about stress-induced hallucinations.

"I need a walk" Watson finally stated. Two minutes later he was gone.

# #

John stood still in the St James park, contemplating the duck pond. It was the hardest decision he had to take in his entire life. Quiet steps came to a halt on his left. "Mycroft" he greeted without looking. "What do you want?"

The text that summoned him here was rather clear (" **I believe it is time to cancel your retirement** "), but he didn't want to accept it just yet. "You don't need me to spell it out, John" the government official chided gently. _This man is… such a sham._

"Moriarty is a trained Elemental, isn't he?" John asked, still watching the ducks squabble for a piece of bread.

Mycroft startled badly at that. "How…"

"I felt it" John deadpanned. "Water and fire. No wonder he is insane with this dichotomy."

Holmes sighed. "Indeed. One of the worst failures of the program."

"And now this failure is coming after Sherlock." The ex-soldier didn't bother to hide the angry undertone this time. Throwing his head back, John let out a humorless laugh. "So I finally fell into your trap." He turned to face Mycroft, who held his ground with barely a wince. _Have to admit it, he is not a coward._ "What are we to you all? Assets? Weapons?" He was making an admirable effort to keep his temper in check, but the resentment must have shown quite clearly since the older man paled. It was an argument John imagined hundreds of times before and knew exactly what he wanted to say. "Never human, huh." Leaving no room for fake platitudes, he jabbed a finger in Mycroft's direction. "I'll take Jim down. Not because you lot ordered it, but because this is the right thing to do." Having said his piece, John returned to his observation of ducks, ignoring the somewhat shaken man at his side.

At least five minutes elapsed before either of them spoke. "Sherlock can't get involved" Mycroft said, a hint of pleading in his voice.

John simply nodded. "I know." The phantom of loneliness was back with him, mocking, tempting, unbearable. Or maybe it had never left.

# #

John stilled himself on the stairs landing. This was going to be horrible. Worse than the house fire in his early childhood, worse than the first interrogation when he let himself be discovered, worse than the bullet stealing his hard-earned career. Sherlock had apparently not moved an inch from his chair, immersed in thoughts.

"Hey" John started awkwardly, rubbing his neck. Silver eyes focused on him, unreadable. _Get this over with, Watson._ "Listen, I've been thinking…"

Sherlock's face hardened imperceptibly. "You're leaving" the detective stated in a hollow voice.

 _He's not wrong, but he's misunderstanding._ John felt his heart clench. _But it is better that way. He won't come looking after me._ "I… I can't stay." Silver eyes looked away in veiled disappointment. "I'm sorry." There was no answer.

It took John about an hour to get all his things ready. He grabbed the duffel bag, before entering their living room for the last time. His voice sounded strangely calm despite the inner turmoil he was dealing with. "I left the rent money on the kitchen table. Someone'll drop by to move my remaining stuff later."

The detective glanced at him from behind his laptop. "You are in a hurry."

"No point in stalling" the doctor deadpanned.

"Indeed." Sherlock pointedly returned his attention to the screen.

 _I'm sorry, Sherlock. This is better than watching you die. So hate me all you want._ But he couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. "Stay safe, would you" John said without thinking.

"Goodbye, John" came the reticent reply.

Swallowing a traitorous lump in his throat, the doctor half-whispered "Farewell" before darting outside. Stumbling in the London's chilly street, John took a second to regain his composure. _Just a little. Just for now._ He marched away from his home, not looking back, and completely missing the pained gaze that followed his departure behind curtains in 221b.

# #

Mycroft personally picked up John Watson two blocks away from Baker Street. The Elemental dropped into the backseat with him. After a two-seconds stare-down, he closed his eyes and asked through clenched teeth: "Bring me to a deserted place."

A rapid but thorough visual assessment confirmed that Watson was barely holding back. Mycroft nodded to his driver, and the car sped off into the traffic. Fortunately, the government never lacked in isolated places.

They pulled off near an abandoned factory. John threw himself out of the car and took a dozen long strides towards the open and empty parking lot. Mycroft got out at more sedate pace, and watched the show from a distance. It had been already a miracle that the man managed to contain his emotions for that long.

John let out a scream of rage, arms spread wide, and a smallish tornado swept around him, almost lifting him into the air. The winds were literally howling, but kept conveniently away from the car and its occupants. Like a puppet with its strings cut, the soldier fell to his knees, shoulders shaking with dry sobs. Green sprouts pierced the concrete around him, growing by the second and covering John under a dome, all the while rogue winds swirled all around it. It lasted five minutes at most, and then the air stilled, the green dome fell apart, and John Watson walked back to the stunned Mycroft and his subordinates, a grim look plastered on his face.

"Let's get started."

# #

The scope of Moriarty's network was truly impressive. It took John almost two years to deal with it. Would have taken longer, if he hadn't used some of Mycroft's resources. The older Holmes tried to take charge of the operation, but a hollow chuckle and a "Are you underestimating me again?" cut short to this endeavor.

The bullet stole his military and medical careers. Mycroft spoiled his retirement ( _it had been normal, thank you very much_ ). Moriarty stole the only home and family that would accept him fully. All that remained of John Watson was an angry, calculating man with too much power at his disposal.

 _I have been reckless again,_ John thought bitterly, while being surrounded by a dozen of armed goons. "Oh, Johnny, what a surprise!" Jim crowed from the background, lounging in a revolving chair. "Did you come to say hello?"

Unperturbed, John glanced left and right, before a cold smile made an appearance. "Just so" he said, clicking his fingers. A massive air current, with the brute force of an actual explosion, slammed into the henchmen and scattered them across the room with various degrees of concussion and broken ribs.

"How sweet" Jim drawled, grinning wide.

 _Something's wrong._ "It's over" John announced, keeping a wary eye on the room.

"Oooh, I don't think so, Johnny." A wide screen flared to life behind Moriarty, displaying a life feed. With a start, the soldier recognized the outside of Baker Street. The muzzle of a sniper riffle glided into view, aimed at the familiar lanky silhouette that paced the living room. _Oh god no._ "You know what happens, right?" the madman purred, and he had no choice but to raise his hands and wait for the blow that would knock him out.

# #

Two years. It had been two years since John left. Somehow, Sherlock did not relapse into drugs, surprising both Mycroft and himself. Perhaps it was that final request ("Stay safe, would you."). Perhaps just the stubborn pride. Nevertheless, his mind stayed clear, and ready to speculate on infinite 'what ifs'.

Two years. _Two frigging years. Why can't I get over it?_

He was busy descending into a self-pity session when his phone chimed with an incoming email. He clicked on it by the power of habit. It was a recorded video.

First, everything was dark, and only a sizzling sound could be heard. Slowly, it stopped and whatever blocked the lens dropped. The image slowly focused, revealing… a human jaw? It was definitely a lower part of a face, male, late thirties, Caucasian, with a horrible fresh burn marring the skin. Sherlock's stomach lurched when he realized what exactly the earlier sound had been. _Burning flesh._ But how did this man remain silent? The pain alone… _Must be heavily drugged._

The camera moved back, and the whole face came into view. This time Sherlock's stomach fell into an icy abyss, shortly followed by his heart. It was the unconscious face of John Watson. The camera moved again, revealing another unpleasant surprise. Jim Moriarty stood over the ex-army doctor with a manic grin. "You have questions, don't you, Sherlock dear? Go ask your brother." The recording stopped.

Sherlock stared at his phone in horror. _He left to be safe. Why does Jim have him? What's going on?_ He stumbled to the couch and fell. _John._

# #

Mycroft was too busy collecting field reports about the disappearance of agent Percival (code name, obviously) during the finishing touches of their years-long operation. He didn't pay attention to the noises outside his underground office, not when there was an entire security team dealing with external disturbances. However, an irate Sherlock Holmes was not a bullet he could dodge.

"Mycroft!" the detective bellowed, slamming the metal door open with gusto. The older brother looked up, unimpressed. Sherlock tossed his phone at him, a recording ready to be played on the screen, and proceeded to glare heatedly from the middle of the room.

"What is it then, Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed, resigned to deal with his sibling for the next hour or so.

"Watch it" he growled in reply, an angry snarl contorting his face into an unfamiliar mask. Sighing again, Mycroft clicked on the screen.

It lasted less than two minutes and ended on Moriarty's gleeful voice. Shocked ( _dealing with Watson is an incessant source of unpleasant shocks_ ), the older Holmes sagged back into his chair. Sherlock took a step forward, fists tightly clenched at his sides. "Explain. Now." Despite the younger man's insistence, Mycroft was very hesitant to divulge any information. He had spent decades to prevent this kind of situation, after all. " **NOW, MYCROFT!** " Sherlock roared, banging both hands against the oak table.

 _What does it say that I've never seen him so angry before?_ Mycroft mused absently. The detective was breathing heavily, barely restraining himself from physically extracting the information. _Sentiment. I knew it would be his ruin._ "What is eluding you, brother mine?" he raised a superior eyebrow at the fuming man. "John Watson offered his services into taking down Moriarty's organization, and I accepted."

Sherlock lurched backwards with a wordless snarl. "You made him leave" he accused, and maybe to him it was the worst crime anyone could commit. "He was my only friend and you threw him to the lions." ( _"So I finally fell into your trap"_ Watson's voice chimed into Mycroft's mind). "Why? Damn it, Mycroft, I thought you cared!"

"Because it was the right thing to do" the older brother replied, quoting John's own words. It earned him an incredulous glare, laced with a veiled sense of betrayal. Sneering in disgust, Sherlock turned to leave. "Wait." Mycroft leaned forward, assessing and discarding different scenarios at the speed of light. _Sherlock can't be stopped now. The only option is to provide him with enough information to ensure his actions follow the optimal (and the safest) trajectory. It would be the only opportunity to take down Moriarty. The recovery of John Watson would be a nice bonus._

The detective pulled him from strategic musings with a sharp "What now?!" _Oh, little brother, how low have we fallen._

"I will provide you information." That got the younger man's attention.

He grabbed a chair and dropped into it with a grimace. "Talk now" he demanded, not hiding the sense of urgency in his words.

Nodding to himself, Mycroft hit a few keys on his desktop before engaging the fateful conversation ( _who am I kidding, Sherlock had already hacked at least into the lower clearance files_ ). "What do you know about Elementals?"

"I fail to see the connection with John's predicament."

"It is relevant. Humor me."

The detective absently tugged at his curls before steepling his fingers under the chin. "I presume it is an elaborate code for a group of agents with a very specific skill set, recruited and trained very young. The legality of the procedure is questionable, thus the secrecy."

"It is not a code" Mycroft supplied after a second of silence.

Sherlock huffed in derision. "Mystic powers of the four elements? How is it not a code?"

Without providing a direct answer, Mycroft turned his screen and hit play. It was showed an empty room, where a young red-headed man stood. A muffled order sounded behind the camera, and the nameless redhead nodded with a smirk. A fire ball sprung to life between his hands. He made it twirl and fly around him, then change shapes, and little fiery foxes and hounds run playfully on his hand. The recording ended when the fire puffed out of existence with a trickle of grey smoke. "It cannot be real" Sherlock managed after awhile.

"This is agent Hill" Mycroft said, turning the screen back. "He had been identified as a fire Elemental at the age of five and trained in our program ever since. These people are rare, but their existence is known to humankind since the early 5th century. At least, that's the first confirmed and documented case."

"Manipulation of elements?" Sherlock stammered, eyes wide.

"Indeed." He could see the cogs turn under the messy locks. "The training programs had been implemented in early 20th century. This… gift is difficult to control, and younger kids often slip up. We identify them, remove from the civilian society and train them accordingly."

"You actually kidnap children?" the younger man sneered, momentarily distracted.

"The procedure had been established way before my time, Sherlock." _Here goes nothing._ "The only documented Elemental to have avoided this fate is agent Percival, who had been working on the Moriarty's case for some time now."

"I still fail to see how this is all relevant, Mycroft. I don't care about these… magicians or whatever they are."

"Moriarty is one."

"One what?"

"An Elemental."

Sherlock recoiled in mute shock. Then frowned in growing anger. "And you sent John after him knowing that?!"

Feigning to have not heard the accusation, Mycroft continued. "Agent Percival is a very remarkable individual. An earth and air Elemental, self-trained and highly intelligent. Enough to avoid detection for years, and revealing himself only when convenient."

"Mycroft, I swear to God…"

"See for yourself." He turned the screen around again.

This time, the camera filmed an interrogation room. A young man with dirty blond hair sat hunched on the metallic chair, face hidden in his palms. Another man, much older and moving with authority, strode in the room, slamming the door shut. "Now, are you ready to talk?"

"About what?" The kid's voice was muffled.

"Who are you working for? How did you avoid detection?"

"Just let me be."

"I'm afraid it is not an option, lad."

"Really?" the kid asked, finally looking up. John Watson's young face lacked in age lines and tension. It also lacked in warmth, as he smirked at his interrogator. "And what exactly **can** you do against me?"

The man glanced worriedly around the room, and John's smirk grew wider. He seemed to click his fingers. With seemingly no reason the door flew open, blown by… an explosion? No, only a gust of wind. Loud shouts and clutter could be heard from the outside, and suddenly several weapons flew inside and dropped to the ground with the loudest metal 'clang!' ever. John stood up and faced the stunned interrogator, irradiating calm and determination. "I will be a soldier. I will be a doctor. Stay out of my way."

"Agent Percival" - Mycroft commented – "also known as John Watson, had performed admirably in the regular army, while accepting side contracts as an Elemental on the side. He had been shot during one of these assignments, and insisted on retirement." Sherlock's face was a blank mask, and Mycroft felt a pang of guilt. "When confronted about his choice of living arrangements, he assured us that he had no intention to use his powers again." Still the blank stare. "After the incident with James Moriarty, Watson had volunteered to take the threat down." Mycroft thought about the emotional meltdown he witnessed after Watson's departure from Baker Street. _I owe him at least this._ "He did it in order to protect you."

This made Sherlock jump up with a wild look in his eyes, before slumping back onto the chair. "Why didn't he tell me?"

Unsure whether that question was meant to be voiced out, Mycroft answered anyway: "Because he knew what it's like to be scorned."

Silver eyes flashed with fury. "I would never…!"

"I know, brother."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. "What now?"

# #

John groggily opened his eyes and instantly wished he didn't. His whole body felt numb, and trampled. His jaw pulsated with a dull pain. Worse of all, he could feel no connection to his elements, which was extremely odd. There was a blurry curtain mere centimeters away from his face, but he could barely move his hands to push it away. _What's going on? Where am I?_

"Rise and shine, Johnny-boy!" sang a high-pitched voice, somewhat muffled to his ears. Moriarty. John managed to turn his head and was met by the maniac's face plastered against a transparent glass. "Here you are" Jim grinned. "Just in time. How do you feel, Johnny, in my water prison?" Coming to a slow realization, John looked up again. _It is no curtain. It is water, gallons of water hovering over me. I am a bloody gold fish in an aquarium._ "Good, so you noticed!" There was movement in the background, and John's attention turned there. They were in the middle of a rather large ballroom, absolutely empty. He vaguely remembered maiming the last minions Jim had under his thumb, effectively finishing off the criminal network. Not that it made Jim less dangerous now. "Our guest of honor is here!"

Moriarty swirled around, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. John had to narrow his eyes to distinguish anything beyond a few meters around his cage. His head throbbed with a dull pain, a combined result of the concussion and drugs. A single man came through the jagged doors, tall, dark hair, advancing slowly towards them. Then the newcomer spoke out, and John's blood ran cold. "You made me dance long enough, Jim."

 _Oh god, please, no, not him, not here, no!_ "Sherlock" he slurred so quietly neither man heard him.

"I didn't expect you to come to the rescue, Sherlock dear. How did you convince the Iceman?"

Sherlock's voice was steady as he came to a halt some steps away, eyes flickering briefly at John's imprisoned form. "He didn't have a choice in the matter." _Mycroft let him come? No, impossible. There must be a plan. Something. Anything._

"Got my message then? Good! Did you like it?" Jim chattered excitedly.

In contrast, Sherlock's answer was dry and to the point: "No."

There was a disappointed noise from the madman's general direction, then Moriarty skid forward, closer to Sherlock. John willed his arms to move. They barely twitched in response. _Dammit, dammit, move!_ Meanwhile, the smaller man was circling the detective like a shark. Holmes remained seemingly unperturbed by the antics. "So, Sherlock dear, this is finally our last date. Did you bring a gift this time 'round?"

Sherlock sneered in response. "I came here alone, didn't I?"

"True" the maniac purred. "So, what will you give you in exchange for your pet?"

John could only watch on, helpless, as the detective levelled a scathing glare at his nemesis. "Anything."

It seemed to surprise Jim. "The Iceman's deepest secrets?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Yes."

"Your reputation?"

"Yes."

Moriarty stepped back, a wide grin stretching his face into a grimace. "Your hands?"

John desperately tried to move, but his body was sluggish, uncooperative. He saw Sherlock glance at him again, and tried to yell "Get out, get away now!" It came out as a pitiful gurgle. Sherlock looked back at Moriarty with grim determination. "Yes."

The other man hummed. "Alright" he quipped happily, pulling out a golden lighter from a vest's pocket.

Fire erupted in the air, making Sherlock back off a step. Too late. John attempted to shout. Before his friend could evade the flames, it latched on his hands. He collapsed on the floor, screaming in pain while the heat blistered his skin."Stop it!" John screamed, voice finally coming out stronger than a whimper. " **Sherlock**!" The panic and the anger gave his limbs a much-needed boost to move, in jerking motions, but they moved. His feet slammed against the further panel of the aquarium, strong enough to make the whole thing tremble.

It had the merit to distract Moriarty from his twisted idea of fun. The fire withered, and Sherlock curled into a ball, clutching his poor hands protectively. _Sherlock._ The sight made John's blood boil. Calling upon the wind ( _there is always **air**_ ) in the confined space had never been a bright idea, but he didn't quite care at the moment. Stretching and compressing the volume of the available molecules to push through the panels should have been a child's play for him, and John fully intended to fight back.

"Uh-uh, that won't do, Johnny" Moriarty tutted, placing a hand against the glass. Suddenly, the mass of water dropped, pinning him down. Deprived of oxygen, John struggled, arms flailing around uselessly. This was Jim's space, and it didn't obey the world's rules. _Can't swim up,_ the soldier realized. _Can't breathe…_

" **John**!..." There was shouting outside the water bubble. _Is it the last thing I'll hear?_ John had the time to think before the liquid lifted up, spitting him out at the bottom of the aquarium again. He desperately gasped for breath, feeling the lack of oxygen. Despite being drenched, John was starting to sweat, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep a thought straight. _Dammit…_

# #

The pain in his hands rocked through his whole body. The skin had blistered and ruptured in several places, exposing the unprotected flesh. _Serious nerve damage, probability of full recovery – 12%. I can forget about the violin_ , Sherlock noted absently, while trying to suppress his own screams of agony. John's voice cut into his current hell: "Stop it! **Sherlock**!" and the fire subsided, leaving him shaking on the floor.

"Uh-uh, that won't do, Johnny." The cold amusement rolled from Jim in waves. It was going too fast, _can't control, don't let him_ … Sherlock watched in horror as the water crushed down on John. _Why doesn't he get up, push through?!_ Then he saw the cruel smile Moriarty sported while watching the doctor struggle to keep conscious. _He's holding him down._ " **John!** " The detective stumbled to his feet and attempted to elbow Jim away. His nemesis merely sidestepped the attack, cackling. But the water released its hold, and John was still breathing, alive.

"How touching, really" Jim drawled, wiping away invisible tears. "You know **what** Johnny-boy is, don't you, Sherlock? He is just like me."

Struggling to stay upright, Sherlock discovered that he still had enough strength to glare back. "Don't you dare compare yourself to John" he growled.

"Why not?" the madman sounded genuinely surprised. "We are both gods. Or are we monsters?" he smirked.

"Neither" came a strangled reply from the aquarium. It was so quiet they almost missed it. Both men stared at John Watson. He looked back blearily. _Lack of oxygen_ , Sherlock observed with a pang of panic. "Just human" the doctor elaborated, head lolling to the side.

"Human, huh." There was a new dimension to the emptiness of Moriarty's voice.

Forcing his attention to remain on the immediate threat instead of his dying friend, Sherlock sneered in defiance. "You can kill me, or both of us even, it wouldn't matter." The confident tone of his voice betrayed nothing of the searing physical pain he felt, both physically and mentally. "Your organization had already been destroyed. In a few minutes, this whole area will be bombarded. **That** was the original plan." It took wonders of snooping around to figure out Mycroft's strategy. He never expected his older brother to prioritize John's safety. But if the older Holmes refused to do it, he just had to do the legwork himself. "So here we are, Jim. You are human, because you lost."

Black eyes stared blankly at him. "I lost" Moriarty seemed to taste the words like a candy. "Lose…" A mad grin slowly creeped over his face. "Yes. Yes, I see now." He stepped forward, into Sherlock's personal space, on the verge of laughing again, making the detective recoil in surprise. "Thank you. **Thank you** , Sherlock Holmes!"

Out of nowhere, there was a gun in Jim's hand. _SHIT!_

Blood and bits of brain exploded all over the place, leaving Sherlock staring in horrified surprise at Moriarty's dead body. His stupor did not last a second, because the water in the aquarium, held up only by Jim's will, dropped on the barely conscious John again.

"NO!" Sherlock tried to kick and push the damned thing, but it was sealed shut to the floor, and the glass was rather thick. It was incredibly high ( _custom made_ ), impossible to climb it up fast enough. "NO! JOHN! WAKE UP!" Watson had not moved for a few seconds already, floating lifelessly inside. "JOHN!" _Have to break the glass. Now. **Now.**_ Silver eyes darted around in panic, in search of something, anything, to help him break the death trap, and fell on the gun in the dead man's hand. _Who cares about forensics,_ he decided on the spot. Prying the weapon from Moriarty's still warm fingers turned up to be a new kind of torture with his own bloodied, burnt up appendages. Sherlock pushed through the haze of pain with grim determination, aiming at the lower part of the aquarium and pressing the trigger with only a hiss of discomfort.

It took three shots to let the water momentum to crack the glass, and it came rushing through the gaps, washing away its former master's blood. Ankle deep in water, Sherlock dropped the gun, and hurried to dismantle the remaining glass and pry John's body out.

To his rising panic, the blond soldier remained unresponsive. _Dammit!_ Placing John in the quickly draining puddle of water ( _the coolness was heaven on his abused hands_ ), Sherlock bent over his friend's head. A barely noticeable trickle of air tickled his ear. _Breathing_. He slumped back in relief, eyes not leaving the rescued blogger. He stayed on his knees for long minutes, trying to catch his breath. Water soaked his pants, but he ignored it in favor of processing their current situation.

_John – passed out. Moriarty – dead. Myself – injured. Bombing status – uncertain, could be any minute now._

"Damn." Giving a passing glance at the corpse that got pushed closer to the main door, Sherlock attempted to shake John awake.

# #

John slowly faded back to life. The first thing he felt was the fizzling connection to his elements. A sense of content and _rightness_ overwhelmed him for a moment, before the awareness of his own body returned. Breathing was painful, but at least he managed to provide the body with the oxygen it needed. He was cold, numb even, and strangely wet. _Ah yes… water._ Something, or rather someone was clumsily patting him on the shoulder. "John? John, please." _I know this voice._ "We have to get out." _I…_

John forced his eyes open, cringing at the unforgiving bright light. "Sherlock?" he croaked weakly. _How is my throat so parched after bloody drowning?_

"Thank god…" Sherlock's voice whispered, and the familiar face appeared in his line of view. "Get up." The soldier frowned at the sudden command, but obeyed nevertheless at the best of his abilities, which were not much at the moment. It took an absurd amount of effort to only sit up. His vision swam from the exertion. _Not good._ Sherlock watched on with a concerned grimace. "That'll have to do. We need to go."

"Why?" John inquired, hands slowly massaging his temples.

"Mycroft is going to blow this place up."

 _With Sherlock still inside? Nah, that's not right…_ "You didn't inform him" he voiced the logical conclusion. Sherlock shrugged, looking utterly unconcerned. "I can barely sit up, Sherlock. You gotta get out by yourself."

That earned him a furious glare. "I didn't come all the way here to abandon you!"

John was in no condition to hold his temper in check over this one. "And I didn't leave home so you could get yourself killed!" There were residual anger and petulance, quickly taken over by a stunned ( _a bit smug too_ ) joy, in those silver eyes. _Home. Yes, 221b is still home after all these years._ John sighed in defeat. He felt so tired, and colder by the second. His eyes fell on Sherlock's mangled hands. _Oh god._ Without a second thought, he held out his hand. "Let me have a look."

# #

Their situation was not getting better. John looked exhausted. _He had been heavily sedated for days,_ Sherlock had to remind himself. _If only my hands weren't that bad…_ "Let me have a look" the doctor said, gaze intent on the burns. The detective presented both hands with a wince. _If we get out alive, I'll need to find a good physiotherapist._

Very carefully, John covered both hands with his own. He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile, before closing his eyes and concentrating. There was a tingling feeling at the tips of the fingers, not unpleasant, but unexpected. It grew and expanded, covering the whole injured area with pins and needles, and warmth. Then John sat back, forehead glazed with a thin sheen of sweat, and Sherlock stared in amazement at his completely healed and perfectly functioning hands.

"I still… want to hear you play." John's voice hitched in the middle of the sentence, and he closed his eyes by the end of it, clearly holding on by sheer willpower.

Putting the astonishment aside for later perusal, Sherlock sprang into action. After much unnecessary shuffling, he hoisted John to his feet. The soldier swayed and paled drastically under the effort, but the detective was there, draping one of John's arms over his own neck, and supporting his friend by the waist. "Let's get out then."

Watson made an admirable effort of moving his feet, but the strength was rapidly abandoning him, and by the time they shuffled out of the building, Sherlock was all but carrying the other man.

"Sorry 'bout that" John mumbled.

"Shut up, and move, John" he grumbled in response.

"Nah…" The soldier looked up to the clear sky, barely lifting his head. "It's coming."

There was a black dot in the distance, ducking through clouds. _Dammit._ John struggled in his grip, and ended up falling down in a heap. "John, it's not the right time to…"

John smiled cut him with a tired smile, pressing both hands down in the cold mud: "I can still do this."

Sherlock had no time to react, to stop the idiot. The ground shook around them, groaned, shifted. Walls, thick, thick walls of rocks and dirt, started to grow around them, higher, higher, until they curved to form a protective dome over their heads. In less than a minute, Sherlock found himself in pure darkness. There was a sigh at his left, too close to a moan for his peace of mind, and a dull noise of a body hitting the ground.

"John?"

# #

Mycroft sat in the helicopter, refraining himself from biting his nails. _What a disaster._ He had called the whole operation off as soon as his aide discovered Sherlock's room empty. He really thought the information could be hidden from Sherlock this time around, but underestimated the drive the mere thought of John Watson gave to his brother.

And now the man had gone and confronted a mad Elemental by himself. _Mummy will be furious._

His operatives had confirmed Sherlock's presence near the target. And so Mycroft found himself flying to the last Moriarty's stronghold, praying to be able to negotiate his brother's life. The building was already in sight, when the pilot exclaimed loudly in surprise. Something was happening out there. Mycroft's heart ( _sentiment, dammit to hell_ ) clenched painfully in his chest.

When they finally landed, every agent that came as his personal detail tumbled out of the machine to gape. In front of the building sat a large (five meters high, at least seven meters in diameter), perfectly sealed, rocky dome. It had definitely not been there at their last reconnaissance mission. _Watson_ , Holmes realized belatedly. _He built this to defend against the blast._ Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, and he sincerely hoped that John hadn't squirreled the madman away in his hand-made bunker along with Sherlock.

After a relatively long wait for a specially trained team to sweep the building, a stone-faced agent presented a report. A group of injured thugs had been found and taken into custody in the left wing. On the ground floor, in a flooded ballroom, the corpse of James Moriarty had been discovered with a self-inflicted wound to the head. No other sightings. This seemed to confirm the hypothesis of Sherlock and John being the only ones inside the dome.

The chief of the tech team informed Mycroft that the dirt walls were two to five meters thick, strong enough to survive a bombing. "Then find a drill" Holmes snarled and stomped away to regain composure.

The drilling and the digging continued till the nightfall. Someone brought out the harsh outdoor lights, and the work continued. Mycroft had not moved from his spot near the helicopter. "We're almost there, sir! Someone is digging from the other side."

It made the older Holmes almost jump up. _Sherlock. Let it be Sherlock._ He had no doubt that Watson could take the walls down with a flick of his hand. He had not done so, and it was safe to assume that he had been out for the count. It left his brother. Alone under tons of rocks. He rushed to the digging site, vaguely impressed by the hole his minions created in only five hours.

"There!" someone shouted, and there was the unmistakable sound of large rocks crumbling and a surprised shout from inside. _Sherlock._ Disregarding the mud clinging to his leather shoes, Mycroft strolled to the front and inside the dome, now lightened up by the projectors.

He was met with a wild glare of one disheveled consulting detective. Sherlock, covered in dust but looking relatively unhurt, was standing at the edge of the light in the small dump space. Slouched behind him against a wall was a still form of John Watson. The front of the doctor's shirt was stained with dark spots, possibly blood. "Mycroft" the younger man whispered in disbelief. Then the confusion melted away, and he stepped resolutely stepped forward, voice imperious. "John requires medical attention."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the request, hiding his relief at seeing his sibling safe. "You put the whole operation in jeopardy, Sherlock. There will be consequences."

The unrepentant man-child snorted derisively. "When **hadn't** there been consequences?" He looked around the bemused assembly of governmental agents and tech workers, then walked back to Watson's side. "Have the medics arrived yet?" he threw over his shoulder, eyeing the unconscious doctor with evident worry.

# #

"You don't have to stay here all the time, Sherlock."

"Piss off."

It had been three days since John had been admitted to a private hospital. Sherlock had not left his side since then. He hadn't given a justification for his clinginess to anyone but himself. There had been this shadow on Mycroft's face, a judgement towards John. He had seen this fleeting expression more often when they were children. It was usually an echo of wariness and deep-seated hatred. The only thing preventing Mycroft from eliminating John in that vulnerable state was Sherlock himself.

"He will wake up in due time, brother. No need to bring yourself to the point of exhaustion."

The insufferable lecture was grating on the detective's nerves. "What part of 'piss off' did you not understand, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock snapped. He whirled on his heels to face the pompous bureaucrat, face contorted in an ugly snarl. "Enough! I will not allow you to steal him again!"

Mycroft blinked in surprise. "Steal him? Is that what you think?"

"You hate him" Sherlock growled, leaning way too close to the other man's face. "You hate him and you want him gone. I. Will. **Not.** Let you."

The older Holmes took a cautious step back, and shook his head. "I do not condone this… _friendship_ of yours. But for your own safety, brother dear, I am willing to tolerate Watson's existence."

It was Sherlock's turn to blink. His brother had practically admitted accepting John as his friend. _Nah, must be a trap._ "Allow me to doubt you."

"As long as you both take care of yourselves" Mycroft responded with an uncharacteristic shrug, nodded and left without further attempts at coercion.

 _Well, that's new,_ Sherlock's brain quipped in bemusement.

# #

It took John a very long time to emerge from the nothingness, only this time he had not been alone in his slumber. The connection to the outside ran steady through his elements. It was a distorted awareness of his surroundings, very different from the usual human senses, making it extremely difficult to process and understand. A warm presence ( _home_ , his dizzy brain labelled it, _home and chemicals and chase_ ) remained the only constant in his perceptions.

Sleeping felt good. Comfortable. There was no cold, no fatigue, no pain. No need to run and get hurt either.

Slowly, his thoughts cleared up, and John slipped into a rem-sleep.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was greeted with a tame light filtering through heavy curtains. Someone was softly snoring in the room, but his neck felt too stiff to move. There was an ever-present whiff of disinfectant in the air. _Hospital_ , John decided. _Makes sense._

His recollections of why exactly he ended up in a coma were quite blurry at first ( _I was going to finally get Jim, right?_ ), then somehow his brain supplied an image of Sherlock's panicked face and everything came into sharp focus. The monitor near his bed beeped in alarm ( _the cardiac frequency must have skyrocketed_ ), making whoever was snoring wake up with a startled snort.

"Wh… John?"

 _I know this voice,_ John thought, only then realizing he squeezed his eyes shut. "Yeah?" he offered, not quite ready to look around yet.

There was a sigh of relief, followed by an irritated: "Open your eyes if you're awake, would you."

 _Definitely know it._ Moved by curiosity, John attempted a peek through his eyelashes. An unamused consulting detective that was looming over him raised an eyebrow. "Alright" the doctor tried to shrug, but it came as a feeble jerking motion of his hands. He fully opened his eyes regardless. "Wh…"

His question was interrupted by a rapid string of answers: "We are in a private hospital, curtesy of Mycroft, surprisingly enough. You have passed out after creating the earth dome, and have been out for five days. The neurologist suspected a brain tumor at some point – you had a nosebleed that just didn't stop for hours, lost quite a lot of blood actually, but the MRI scan came up empty. No visitors – except me, obviously – have been allowed."

John blinked, processing the information. _Nosebleed, huh. Haven't had this one in decades._ "Well, that's… good, right?" He smiled at his friend, who seemed to vacillate between frustration and relief.

"It is, indeed."

There was an awkward stretch of silence, when John's gaze wandered across the room. It was impersonal and almost bare except from his bed and medical paraphilia, and the chair in which Sherlock had been sleeping. The piece of furniture seemed comfortable enough, compared to usual metallic monstrosities a hospital provided.

"You require hydration" Sherlock suddenly stated, producing a paper cup and a bottle of water from somewhere lower than the bed ( _oh yes, bedside tables…_ ). He scowled when John didn't immediately take it. Stifling a fond chuckle, the doctor forced his arms to move, but they were shaking too much to properly hold anything. Realization dawned on Sherlock, who held up the cup with a sheepish look while John carefully gulped down the water.

"Thanks." Sherlock shrugged non-committedly and stepped back with a thoughtful expression on his face. "You alright?"

That seemed to startle the younger man. "Yes, fine, I'm fine. Why?"

"Well, you look upset" John chirped, trying to push himself into a sitting position. Sherlock frowned at his efforts, and absently reached to push him back on the pillow.

"Don't strain yourself" he said off-handedly, before looking away. "Why would I be upset?"

"Lots of reasons, really." John managed to shrug this time. "About the whole Moriarty affair. About the whole Elemental business, or the hospital, or just Mycroft. Take your pick."

The affected thoughtfulness switched to a laser glare. John blinked, unused to this level of scrutiny anymore. "You left." There were all sorts of layers in these two words – from a painful accusation undertone to a child-like uncertainty, to a veiled curiosity just waiting to burst out. Sherlock's face settled into a blank mask, but his fingers ( _that were thankfully devoid of any burns or scars_ ) fidgeted with the hem of his cuffs.

John didn't have to think about his reply, really. "I never said it was forever."


End file.
